Advent begins in the dark. So writes one of the greatest preachers of our times, the Rev. Fleming Rutledge. As the Church begins a new liturgical year on the first Sunday of Advent, we can’t help but notice the precariousness of the world in which we live – a climate crisis that will cause untold suffering, a pandemic that is going on two years and showing signs of a fifth wave of infections and hospitalizations, and political and social divisions that seems to threaten the very fabric of our society. Not to mention all of the personal darknesses that we all face – depression, grief, addiction, struggling children, aging parents, difficult work situations. To be sure, there are plenty of good things that we could point to, but whether we want to call it pessimism or realism, it does seem like things have gone off the rails.
This
is how every Advent begins, in the dark, even Advents when things seem better.
One of the great prayers of Lent notes that “we have no power in ourselves to
help ourselves.” Even in the best of times, we always struggle against
temptation, doubt, selfishness, and fear. In order to prepare fully to receive
the light of Christ, we must acknowledge the darkness in which we find
ourselves.
Before
going any further, I want to name a discomfort that I have with this
terminology of “darkness” and “light.” To put it plainly, in our context there
are clearly racial overtones to such language. To associate darkness with bad
things and light with good is to use a framework that feeds racist stereotypes.
This is our baggage though. For Biblical authors such as Isaiah, or Jeremiah,
Luke, or Paul, this was not an issue, as those words did not carry a sense of
racial connotations. But they do for us. And so it’s a question of how we use
language and symbols that have become more complicated. I’ve been struggling
with this question for a few years, and I don’t know what the right answer is.
Many scholars, both black and white, make compelling arguments on all sides of
the question. Perhaps the best that we can do is to simply name the problems
that such language can cause and be cautious when using the metaphors of light
and dark. And if nothing else, while still talking about the interplay between
darkness and light, we can rightfully reject the interpretation of black being
bad and dirty with white being good and pure.
For
both Jeremiah and Luke, whom we heard from this morning, there was a sense of
despair. Jeremiah was an imprisoned and rejected prophet who writes about the
destruction and exile of the Jewish people. In Luke, we heard Jesus speak of
the impending Day of the Lord and the sense of fear and foreboding that will
accompany it. Like Jeremiah, at the time of Luke’s writing, Jerusalem had been
besieged and sacked by an invading army. In both contexts, the world as they
had known it had ended and the light of hope had gone out.
It’s
a feeling that we can understand in a way that perhaps wasn’t possible a few
years ago. This Coronavirus pandemic has obliterated normalcy. I know that I’ve
been more cautious than many, some of that is just the quirks of my personality
and some of it is that, until this past week, my children were not able to be
fully vaccinated. But having to decide if gathering with family for the
holidays, especially when not all of them are vaccinated, is worth the risk is
not normal. The awkwardness of knowing whether or not we are supposed to be
wearing masks at a social event is not normal. The concern over every cough or
sniffle is not normal. The trauma that we have put our nurses and physicians
through is not normal. Working from home, even if it’s a nice option to have,
is not normal. Watching church on a screen is not normal. In January 2020, our
average Sunday attendance was 165. Right now, it’s about 80, and that is not
normal. At the end of 2020, we hoped for a return to normal. At the close of
2021, we now realize that normal, as we knew it, is gone.
Maybe
normal wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, but it was at least predictable and
we were accustomed to it. This is where the metaphor of darkness is helpful. In
the dark, we have to move more slowly so that we don’t run into something or
fall into a trap. In the dark, we can’t see what lies very far ahead. In the
dark, we are vulnerable and on edge. In the dark, we have less certainty and
less control. The dark though is also a time for rest, for reflective and slow
steps, for paying closer attention to what is around us, for not taking things
for granted.
Instead
of rushing through this darkness and wishing it away, Advent would have us to
spend some time intentionally sitting in the darkness, remembering that it was
out of the darkness that God summoned all things into being, it is from the
darkness of the womb that life is birthed, it was through the darkness that a
pillar of fire led the Hebrew people out of Egypt, it was in the cold darkness
of a tomb that Christ was raised from the dead. Wonderful and glorious things
happen in the dark, and perhaps God has brought us to a moment such as this so
that we might learn the lesson of the dark.
How
might do this? One way would be to take five or ten minutes and think about the
things in your life that feel burdensome. What is weighing you down? Where do
you feel like you are in dark – uncertain about where to step next? What
frightens you? Give it some serious thought and write down what comes to mind.
And offer those fears and anxieties to God, trusting that, in the words of
Psalm 139, “For God, darkness is not dark; the night is as bright as the day; to
God, darkness and light are both alike.” And from that sense of security in
God, we can then have the courage to name the fact that we are in the dark
instead of pretending otherwise. In faith, we name the places where we need
salvation, the places that are in the shadows, like systemic racism, like an
economy that routinely crushes those in poverty, like a Church more interested in
self-preservation than proclaiming the fullness and radicality of the Gospel. Naming
the darkness is an important act of faith and hope.
This
is true because, as we know from the opening of John, “The true light, Jesus
Christ, was coming into the world. The light shines in the darkness, and the
darkness does not overcome it.” This is the hope of the promise of which
Jeremiah speaks, that “God will cause a righteous Branch to spring up for David,
and he will execute justice and righteousness in the land.” In the Hebrew
mindset, justice is not an ideal, not an abstract idea; rather justice is a
measurable and quantifiable metric. You can see justice, or injustice, by
looking at incarceration rates, by looking at wealth disparities, by looking at
homelessness in a particular area, by looking at our budgets and calendars.
Justice is not a future goal, it is a present benchmark.
When
the light of Christ shines into the dark corners of injustice we will have to
decide if we will go into those places or not. Will we avoid difficult
situations and uncomfortable conversations? That is how injustice is
perpetuated. Rather, justice is done when we follow the light of Christ. And
it’s not just about those people out there that light shines, but within our
very souls. Are we willing to accept our forgiveness if it means that we have
to acknowledge our brokenness and neediness? Can we find healing from the pains
and traumas that we’ve stuffed down? We’ve gotten so used to avoiding the dark
that even when the light begins to shine, we still resist going to those places
that we have ignored for so long. Indeed, God is working out his purpose in
history, bringing justice to places where Sin and Death used to reign. Do we
let that light shine, or do we put it under a bushel?
Throughout
the season of Advent, the Collects are particularly splendid. A Collect, which
is pronounced Collect, not “collect,” is the opening prayer that changes each
week that gathers us together and focuses our prayerful intentions for the
week. This week’s Collect was composed in 1549, so for nearly 500 years
Anglicans have been praying this prayer in Advent. It names the fact that it is
only by grace that we can cast away the works of darkness. We don’t have to be
strong enough, or good enough, or holy enough to cast out the works of
darkness. We rely on the Holy Spirit, working in us, to help us in putting on
the armor of light, which is the armor of love.
Jesus
cautions us about this very thing – to not let our hearts be weighed down,
because darkness will certainly weigh us down, and it will distract us from
seeing the light, it will make us mistrust and fear the searing and purging
light of God’s grace. So while Advent may begin in the dark, it does not leave us
there. For one, Advent delivers us to the doorstep of Christmas – when we
receive the fullness of God’s promise to bring forth a branch from David. But
Advent is not primarily a season of preparation for Christmas; instead Advent
is a preparation for when Christ shall come again in clouds descending. As the
Collect puts it, it is about when Jesus shall come in his glorious majesty to
judge both the living and the dead, that is, to fully and finally establish
justice and righteousness on earth as it is in heaven.
In
the meantime, as we wait, we fix our eyes on that light of Christ. Today’s
Psalm proclaims, “To you, O Lord,
I lift up my soul; my God, I put my trust in you.” Another favorite Psalm for
many of us, 121, opens with: “I lift my eyes up tot hills; from where is my
help to come? My help comes from the Lord,
the maker of heaven and earth.” I was recently called over to the hospital to
meet someone arriving at the ER. I got there before the ambulance did and had
to wait outside. As I did, I looked up and offered prayers for God’s peace and
healing grace. As I was looking up, longing for God’s help, someone walked up
to me and asked “Oh, is the helicopter getting ready to take off?” Puzzled, I
said, “I don’t think so.” And they walked away. It’s a very literal example of
what Flannery O’Conner meant when she wrote, “You shall know the truth, and the
truth shall make you odd.” Odd like lifting up our eyes when it seems like
there’s nothing to see but darkness.
Indeed,
when we lift our eyes up to God, some might think it rather odd or pollyannish.
While we have to acknowledge and name the darkness, we also have to be careful
not to prefer living there and let our eyes think that darkness is normal. When
we’re accustomed to the dark, light can be overwhelming, it can be blinding, it
can be searing. So in addition to naming those places of darkness this Advent,
I would also commend naming those places of light. Who is an acolyte, a light
bearer for you? Where do you feel the warmth and light of Christ? And once you
have identified those people and those places, figure out how you can spend
more time basking in the light of God’s grace. Maybe it’s in prayer, Scripture
reading, service, in making art, or walking a labyrinth. Those moments of grace
and peace are preparing us for the joys of heaven where Christ seeks to bring
us.
I
know that this is a busy time of year and that things are not at all normal.
Advent is a gift given to us by God through the Church in which we are taken
into the darkness to learn what the darkness would teach us and then see that
God is working to make all things right through the light of Christ. This is a
season of giving and receiving gifts, and for the gift of God’s grace, we give
thanks ✠ in the name of
the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.
